


Deduce, Seduce, Repeat

by chemicaldefect



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Humor, Lies and subterfuge, M/M, Porn, Sherlock being kind of a dick, Slash
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-06-15
Updated: 2012-08-19
Packaged: 2017-11-07 19:16:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/434459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chemicaldefect/pseuds/chemicaldefect
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock wants to have sex with John. John thinks he is straight. Sherlock intends to correct that misconception in three <del>not so</del> easy steps.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue: Formulating a Plan

**Author's Note:**

> I fully intended to avoid WIP, but this story has been in my mind for MONTHS, and I had to get it out. There is a prologue followed by four chapters. All mistakes come from me, and please feel free to leave feedback/criticism! Thanks for reading ;-).
> 
> Disclaimer: If I owned the show, stuff like this would be happening on a semi-regular basis. It’s not. Draw your own conclusions
> 
> Rating for Prologue - PG

Sherlock Holmes _hates_ sexuality.

 

Not sex, mind you. Sex is all about instant gratification and hedonistic pleasure – ideals Sherlock has no trouble embracing. Perhaps it would be surprising to some, but Sherlock greatly enjoys the act of sex – it is, after all, a game: using meticulous observation to collect data about your partner, finding out what makes them tick, the best, most ensured ways to make them fall apart. And, as long as he has a suitable, competent partner, the end of the game is _mutual_ satisfaction – it is a favourable situation for both parties involved. Sherlock has desires just like everyone else and he is not above the carnal pleasures of physicality, even if he’ll only admit it begrudgingly.

 

No, what he hates is the concept of _sexuality_ : the categorisation of sexual impulses into identities and communities, behaviours and expectations. The equation should be so much simpler: your brain releases a cocktail of chemical messages indicating your attraction to someone, they reciprocate, and you engage in coitus until you both achieve orgasm. There really isn’t much more to the act, or the impulse, than that. Except, that is, for the ridiculous parade of social and emotional baggage that the less-evolved insist on attaching to the process – _Oh, you enjoy sex with men? You must also love fashion and musicals, and here, wear these clothes and join our bloody parade._ It gets even more complicated when you enjoy intercourse with both genders, when you don’t fit into their neat little categories _._

 

Add to all of this the social protocols of romantic relationships – all of the duties, obligations, inevitable heartbreaks and disappointments – and the costs far outweigh the benefits. A damn shame, because sex itself is rather fun.

 

Sherlock has learned all of this the hard way, of course. During his university days. At first he had thrown himself enthusiastically into the pursuit, upon discovering that many people, both male and female, found his ethereal aesthetic and over-supply of confidence appealing. But then the difficult, tedious questions would start to roll in – _Are you gay? Is that why you don’t want to be with me anymore?_ – _Who the hell is she? I thought you were gay! – Make up your mind! Which are you? – Is this all you do, use people and just toss them aside?_ – It was exhausting and, more troubling to Sherlock, it baffled him. If both he and his partner enjoyed the experience, if he was honest about his intentions (or, more accurately, lack thereof) from the start, why get upset when the transaction was complete? Why did they still expect his continued interest and devotion, when he had explicitly informed them he could offer them nothing of the sort?  Why did people _care_ so damn much? It just didn’t make any sense.

 

After a lengthy string of rude phone calls, petulant emails, and, on one memorable occasion, a big, meaty fist to the jaw, Sherlock decided it wasn’t worth all of the trouble. Wanking was so much simpler, and then he found cocaine and…well, best not to dwell on past mistakes. The point is, he had very much intended to leave sex behind him, burying all of those impulses in the darkest, most hidden corners of his mind palace, only indulging in them when he was alone in his bed at night.

 

Then Irene Adler happened, and now sex is all he can think about. It wouldn’t be so terrible considering that she’s currently halfway around the world living under an assumed identity, but he isn’t thinking about having sex with _her_. If that were the case his rational mind could easily beat those fantasies back into the shadows.

 

He’s thinking about having sex with John Watson.

 

Even that could be manageable; it’s not like the idea never occurred to him in the year they have been living together. When John entered his life he’d gone so long without engaging in the act of sex itself, and without really considering it beyond its barest, most clinical terms, that any physical desire he felt was distant and abstract, relatively easy to delete, compartmentalise, or merge with his growing respect and admiration for his friend. Sure they became close, much closer than Sherlock had planned for or expected. But no matter how familiar they got, Sherlock had been careful to maintain strict boundaries when it came to physical displays of affection, knowing from years of battling addictions and obsessions that the tiniest crack in his mental barrier could bring the whole thing tumbling down. Unfortunately, he did not foresee that crack originating from an outside source: Adler, with her whips and lace and nudity and raw, blatant sexuality that she made no attempt to soften or conceal. It crashed through the wall in Sherlock’s head like a freight train, bringing back long forgotten memories of silk sheets and hot, slick skin, along with an avalanche of new urges and desires, most of them, very inconveniently, centred on John.

 

That’s the problem: he doesn’t just _think_ about having sex with John, he _wants_ to have sex with John.

 

This is a fact made exponentially more annoying by his recent realisation that, upon further reflection, he and John essentially demonstrate all of the tiresome hallmarks of a relationship without any of the sexual bonuses. John expects Sherlock to afford him a certain amount of attention and is hurt and offended when he does not receive it; Sherlock finds it especially irritating that he feels guilty when this happens. Sherlock is similarly aggrieved when John ignores him or devotes the majority his attention to a third party, particularly when said third party is someone John is having sex with _instead of Sherlock_. This is, arguably, more infuriating than the first discovery. It seems that, without Sherlock’s express knowledge or consent, they have tacitly established a series of rules and obligations for their relationship, and both parties become upset when these guidelines are violated.

 

In other words: a relationship. Just without the sex. Sherlock finds this unacceptable. He’s just not sure how to fix it, because John, the dim bastard, operates under the false assumption that he is “straight.”

 

John is certainly attracted to women; based on observation, Sherlock feels comfortable postulating that this is even true a vast majority of the time. But not _always_. He has witnessed, and carefully recorded in his journals, several occasions where John’s eyes linger longingly over attractive male figures – his pupils dilating, pulse quickening, cheeks flushing as he attempts to surreptitiously ogle their backsides. Sherlock has also noted, with no small measure of self-satisfaction, that much of the time the male figure in question is himself. He knows, though, that John will never act on this attraction, nor will he respond favourably if Sherlock approaches him about it bluntly. Because John Watson is _straight_ : years of dating women and being in the military and hanging with “the boys” have firmly implanted this identity in his brain, and anything that does not mesh he insistently represses.

 

Sherlock absolutely, vehemently, _violently_ detests sexuality. He will not, however, risk his friendship with John by directly challenging his sexuality, not just because he’s horny. It’s not worth it.

 

He’s been lying on his bed for hours contemplating the problem – it was daylight when he started, and now the dim light of the desk lamp on his bedside table barely pierces the dark. A composition notebook lays open on the bed beside him, several lines of text in his own hand slashed through with harsh black marks. He stares at the ceiling, absently tapping the pen against his lips. The only possible solution, determined after hours of consideration, is to devise a way of making John believe that advancing their relationship to the next level is his idea. There’s just one small problem – if John ever found out about it, they would be finished. John barely tolerates Sherlock’s dishonesty during cases and domestic rows; if he discovers that Sherlock has been manipulating his sexual identification, there is little doubt that he would leave Sherlock for good. For the past hour, Sherlock has been trying to decide if that’s an eventuality he’s prepared to live with, should his plan go awry.

 

The plan isn’t _completely_ dishonest: John does want to have sex with Sherlock. He just doesn’t know it yet, or at the very least refuses to acknowledge it. Couldn’t the argument be made that Sherlock is simply, subtly, helping him along the path to self-discovery? Isn’t that something that good friends do for one another? And if Sherlock incidentally benefits from John’s newfound sexual liberation, well…surely John won’t begrudge him that. As a friend.

 

Sherlock chews on the end of the pen thoughtfully for a few minutes more, before sitting up and dragging the notebook into his lap. His pen hesitates a beat over the page – surely he’s master enough at subterfuge to keep John unaware of his schemes, and the statistical likelihood of the plan failing in any other way is inconsequential. Smirking to himself, he presses ink to paper, and formulates a plan:

 

1\. Place John in a situation where he is forced to come to terms with his own bisexuality.

A few possibilities:

 ~~Should I involve Harriet?~~ No, no history to support her usefulness.

 ~~Pretend there is a case~~ – too risky, if he talks to Lestrade or Molly esp.

~~Leave gay porn on his laptop~~

~~Set him up with a bloke? Stupid.~~

Find a legitimate case – Aha! Gay nightclub, suspected prostitution ring, perfect. Phone Lestrade straight away.

 

2\. Force John to recognize his attraction to me specifically.

~~Wear tighter clothes~~

Making him jealous seems to work fairly well, based on other relationships. Act accordingly.

 ~~Walk around naked? Too forward~~.

 ~~Behave like a randy tart~~ – ridiculous, completely out of character, see through it in a heartbeat

 

3\. Flaunt sexual escapades until John snaps and proposes intercourse.

 

Sherlock smiles and snaps the notebook shut. Step three might be a little tricky to achieve, as it depends on several variables largely outside of his control, but Sherlock has faith in his abilities. If everything goes according to plan, not only will he finallyget to have sex with John, but he will be able to enjoy a few other new partners in the meantime. It’s been a long dry spell; this is going to be _fun_.


	2. Step 1: Sexual Reorientation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It looks like John got a head start on Step 1 without Sherlock’s help. Sherlock isn’t really sure why that thought upsets him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So..this is _sort of_ before the week is out. At least it's on Sunday. Yay for schedules! Chapter 3 will be up next Sunday. Happy reading, and thanks for sticking with me!

“So let me get this straight – _you’re_ asking _me_ to work on a case?”

 

Sherlock sighs in irritation – they’ve been going around in circles like this for three full minutes now. “Yes, Lestrade. This isn’t the first time I’ve made such a request.”

 

Lestrade’s disbelieving laugh rings through the earpiece. “It’s the first time it’s been a case like this – we’re not even sure there _is_ a case, Sherlock. And hang on – where did you hear about this in the first place?

 

“I – ”

 

“Never mind, I _really_ don’t want to know. My point is, this hardly seems to be your area. The Yard’s gotten several anonymous tips that The Edge of Heaven is operating a brothel behind the scenes. No murder, no messy crime scene, no convoluted mysteries; we haven’t even found any actual evidence yet to suggest that any crime has occurred.” Lestrade’s tone moves from surprise to suspicion. “Why has this caught your eye?”

 

Sherlock pinches the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger, exasperated. He had thought that convincing Lestrade would be the easiest part of his plan. Clearly he’s underestimated Lestrade’s own deductive skills; it’s highly inconvenient. “I told you – I’ve heard rumours from many reliable sources of my own. The case raises many questions: If true, why? Why would a perfectly respectable and incredibly popular nightclub risk its reputation and license by operating a prostitution ring? Many escorts already frequent the establishment, drawing in a wealth of extra business while operating well within the letter of the law. There has been no change in management to explain this sudden turn to criminal activity, and a cursory look at their earnings for the last fiscal year reveals that they hardly need the extra income.

 

“Additionally, my sources express concern that many of the young men have admitted to being coerced into sexual service, in spite of the fact that they are all financially stable, some incredibly well-off, and come from upstanding social backgrounds. Those that have come forward are barely of age, suggesting a high likelihood that many of their…colleagues, for lack of a better term, are well shy of it. People, _children,_ could be in danger, Lestrade, myriad questions remain unanswered, and no solid evidence is forthcoming. Does that not sound precisely like my ‘area’?”

 

Technically all of this is true. Sherlock simply chooses not to mention that he solved the case as soon as the homeless network brought it to his attention. He supposes the bit about the children is a _bit_ exaggerated, if he is completely honest, but it seems to do the trick in convincing Lestrade. 

 

“Alright, alright; it’s not really my division, so I’ll admit I haven’t looked at it too closely. I’ll see if I can be made primary, and I guess you can go head and get started.” Sherlock may be imagining it, but he thinks he hears Lestrade’s head thud against his desk. “Keep me updated, yeah?”

 

Sherlock smirks. “Of course.” He has no intention of doing anything of the kind.

 

-*-

 

Sherlock leans back further in his chair, hands steepled under his chin as he studies John sitting across from him. Past experience tells him that he should wait approximately three more minutes – when John will have completed his perusal of the newspaper and downed two-thirds of his morning tea – to inform him about the case if he wishes to garner a positive response. It’s 11:03 AM, far later than John generally arises in the morning, but from the bags under his bloodshot eyes and his persistent yawning, Sherlock deduces that it was a late night. His eyes narrow when he spots faint teeth-marks just under John’s jawline. A _very_ late night; Sherlock’s plan couldn’t come at a better time.

 

“Are you going to just sit there staring at me, or are you going to tell me what’s on your mind?” John’s attention remains fixed on the paper in front of him, but his lips turn up slightly at the corners.

 

Sherlock’s eyes flit over to the clock on the mantel. A little under two minutes have passed – clearly last night’s sexual activity has improved John’s usual morning mood. Duly noted.

 

“Lestrade phoned this morning.” A white lie. “He’s just been handed an interesting case.” Okay, also a lie, but Lestrade _did_ manage to wrestle control of the case. “He’s requested our help.” Oh, sod it – the whole plan is couched in deceit, why should Sherlock feel guilty about these three little untruths? It’s all for the greater good.

 

John perks up and Sherlock suppresses a smile; even after hundreds of cases, John still loves the thrill of the game. He sets his newspaper aside; Sherlock wonders if he realises he’s leaning forward slightly in his excitement. “Oh yeah? What is it this time? Serial murder? Government conspiracy?”

 

“Illegal prostitution ring.”

 

John’s face falls. “Oh, lovely. More sex workers.”

He spits out the last two words with a grimace. To anyone else, John’s clear distaste for Irene arises out of bitterness regarding her deception; Sherlock, however, knows better: John is _jealous_. Maybe this will be easier than he thought.

 

“Oh relax, this will be nothing like last time.” Sherlock waves a hand dismissively. John scowls.

 

“I feel like you say that a lot, and it is rarely, if ever, true.” Sherlock laughs at that, and John’s scowl deepens.

 

“No high-end escorts, no secretive royals – just a possible brothel operating out of a nightclub in Soho.”

 

John’s scowl twists into confusion. “Why does Lestrade need us on this? It sounds pretty straightforward.”

 

Fortunately, addressing Lestrade’s skepticism earlier has prepared Sherlock to answer this question more convincingly this time around. It doesn’t hurt that John trusts him implicitly. “It is a reputable establishment and these illegal activities, if they are indeed occurring, seem to have suddenly started overnight with no explanation. Rumour has it many of the young men are unwilling participants as well, even though none of them fit the profile for victims of such a crime. Something or someone has them scared. We,” he gestures back and forth between them, “are going to find out who.”

 

John mulls all of this over; Sherlock can practically see the gears turning in his head. “And how are we going to do that? There’s no crime scene, no clues, no evidence for you to haul back to Bart’s…”

 

Oh, Sherlock’s excited for this part. “We’re going undercover, naturally.”

 

“Undercover…right.” John nods, brow still furrowed while he processes everything Sherlock’s told him. Sherlock waits for the penny to drop. John’s eyes widen and his eyebrows shoot up to his hairline. “Hang on, you said…young _men_?” Ah, there it is.

 

Sherlock doesn’t even try to hide his grin.

 

-*-

 

Sherlock tilts his head to the side as he studies his reflection in the mirror, fiddling with a stubborn curl that refuses to be slicked back with the rest. It’s Friday evening, three days since he initially presented John with the fabricated case, and he and John are beginning their first undercover ”assignment” tonight.

 

They won’t be posing as lovers: Sherlock briefly considered it, but thought that particular ruse might make his intentions too obvious. Instead, they’ll be playing old childhood friends: Sherlock is Mark, the younger, more outgoing and promiscuous of the two, who has kindly invited older, more responsible “David” to stay with him in the city after an especially horrid breakup. Mark is treating David to a night out on the town to take his mind off of his ex and help him meet some new…”friends”. The plan, as Sherlock explained it to John, is to return to the club as many times as necessary over the next few weeks, getting to know the regulars until someone invites them to take part in the nightspot’s more illicit activities, thereby confirming the existence of the brothel and, hopefully, identifying its proprietor.

 

John, to his credit, has taken the plan in stride, apart from his initial shock at learning the nature of the nightclub’s clientele. Sherlock isn’t surprised: while John might be uncomfortable with his own sexuality, he is far from homophobic, and Sherlock knew he would put the needs of the young men being victimized over his own personal issues. Although he squirmed in discomfort when Sherlock informed him of his role in their cover story, he remained silent, and Sherlock counted it as a minor success.

 

Curl successfully in place, he leans back from the mirror and twists from side to side, carefully examining himself from head to toe. A small part of him worries that the outfit he’s selected is too much – but no, he needs to attract attention for this part of the plan to succeed. The more men who approach him, the larger selection he’ll have of individuals to direct John’s way, challenging John’s sexuality and pushing him out of his comfort zone. Maybe he’ll even draw their target’s attention; he does look far younger than usual with his hair and clothing styled in this manner. Closing the case in addition to seducing John would simply be the icing on the cake.

 

He flips off the light and heads for the sitting room where John is waiting for him. John sits in his usual chair, thumbing through an old magazine far too quickly to actually take in any information, his hands shaking minutely every time he turns the page. Sherlock almost feels bad for how nervous the poor man is, but he shakes it off: they will both be happier once this is over. He is sure of it. He clears his throat to catch John’s attention.

 

“Ready?”

 

John jumps to his feet, clearly startled, the magazine falling to the floor. He bends down to pick it up, and his eyes widen as he straightens, fully taking in Sherlock’s appearance for the first time.

 

“What the – What _on earth_ are you wearing?” he splutters, indignant.

 

Sherlock feigns confusion, looking down at his thin, white v-neck, tight leather trousers and combat boots in order to hide his smirk. John sounds scandalized, but Sherlock notes the quickened rate of his pulse, his blown pupils: he’s turned on. Good.

 

“We’re going to a gay nightclub.” He shrugs. “Just trying to fit in.”

 

“But…but, are those really leather?” John takes a step closer, his eyes narrowing slightly. “And, Jesus, are you wearing _eyeliner_?”

Sherlock rolls his eyes and turns to grab John’s jacket off the hook by the door. An idea occurs to him, and, with his back still toward his flatmate, he bends over to tighten one of the shoelaces on his boots, his arse in the air and the red waistband of his pants showing. He can _hear_ John’s swallow.

 

“Relax, I’m meant to be the party animal, remember? You look fine, completely passable.” He gestures vaguely towards John’s burgundy button-up and black trousers as he ushers him out the door and hands him his jacket. John’s indignation is real now.

 

“That’s not what I – ” He scrubs a hand over his face, clearly agitated as he makes his way down the stairs. His hand drops as another thought suddenly occurs to him and he freezes mid-step, looking back over his shoulder. “Hang on, why do you even own eyeliner?”

 

Sherlock arches a brow disdainfully and gives him a little shove to get him going again. “I find it useful for undercover work.”

 

John snorts disbelievingly as they exit the flat. “And the leather trousers? What kind of undercover work is that for?”

 

Sherlock smiles briefly at him before turning to hail a cab. “Oh, these are for personal use.”

 

Sherlock wishes he had a camera; the expression on John’s face is priceless.

 

-*-

 

The thumping bass of the house music is even more irritating than Sherlock remembers from his youth, but he forces himself to bob along to the beat as he weaves his way through the other clubbers, pretending to have a good time. He had forgotten how tedious he finds this part. It takes an annoying long time to reach his destination. He props his elbows up on the counter, vying for the bartender’s attention. It doesn’t take long, and he puts on his best, flirtatious smile as he orders two overpriced beers. While he’s waiting he turns to survey this new environment, leaning his weight against the bar and stretching his long legs out in front of him.

 

The club is bigger on the inside than one would expect. It has an open, industrial feel, with exposed pipes running the length of the ceiling and a grated, metal balcony hanging around the edge of a crowded dance floor. Sherlock can barely make out the writhing mass of bodies through the multi-colored glare of the lights and the smoke from the fog machines, and he starts to get a headache that throbs in time with the music if he stares too long. Instead, he turns his attention to the dimly lit tables and couches lining the walls, populated by men engaged in a number of far more interesting activities than dancing: snogging, gasping, moaning, hands travelling one another’s bodies and sliding under clothing, whispering dirty secrets, making plans for later in the evening.

 

He can’t see the large, sectional couch in the far corner, but Sherlock briefly wonders if John is still sitting how he left him there: alone, awkward, trying and failing to hide his obvious arousal at the sights and sounds surrounding him.

 

Sherlock sighs. He hopes a drink or two will loosen John up a bit, allow him to have some fun and actually chat with some of the men Sherlock pulls for them. It’s a good thing Sherlock has already solved the case, because John, at this current level of discomfort, would be damn near useless if they were actually trying to blend in and extract information from the other patrons.

 

A gentle tap on his shoulder distracts him and he turns to find the bartender grinning broadly, two bottles in hand. Sherlock reaches for his wallet but the bartender shakes his head, jerking his head towards a man at the end of the bar as he sets the beers on the counter. Sherlock raises an eyebrow and grins back, nodding his thanks and leaning forward a bit to get a better view of his new friend.

 

The man is attempting nonchalance, staring down at his scotch with a small, nervous smile on his face. He’s about Sherlock’s age but taller by several inches, wearing black skinny jeans, red tennis shoes, and a shiny, silver button-down that stretches across the muscles of his chest. His mess of thick, unruly brown hair is styled to look even messier, and he has a thin, angular face with a sharp nose. His piercing green eyes shyly drift up to meet Sherlock’s penetrating gaze. He’s gorgeous and, more importantly, looks to be just about John’s type based on Sherlock’s previous deductions, which makes him perfect for this stage of the plan. Sherlock winks at him, internally rolling his eyes at the gesture, and offers a small wave. The man hops up from his barstool and slowly makes his way through the crowd to where Sherlock is standing, leaning into his personal space under the pretense of attempting conversation over the roar of the music.

 

“Perhaps this is wishful thinking, but I’m sincerely hoping that you just really like beer, and that both of those bottles are for you.” His voice is deep and pleasant, with a slight Scottish brogue that he tries to cover up. _His father was Scottish, dead now; he hated hi – not now._ The warm whisper of breath against Sherlock’s skin snaps him out of his reverie and sends a shiver down his spine. Maybe he’ll send the next one John’s way.

 

_Focus._

Sherlock turns to face the stranger with a chuckle, and their noses accidentally brush. He not-so-accidentally brushes his lips across the shell of his ear when he replies. “I’m supposed to deliver one to my friend, but I can be late.” He notes with smug satisfaction that the man’s grip on the bar tightens. “I’m Mark.”

 

“Ian.” Ian swallows down the rest of his scotch in three big gulps before leaning in again, one hand moving to rest against the small of Sherlock’s back. “Just a friend?”

 

Sherlock sighs and leans into the touch. “Entirely, boringly platonic, yes.”

 

Ian laughs at that. He takes one of the beers from Sherlock’s hand and sets it on the counter behind him, grabbing Sherlock loosely by the wrist and pulling him toward the dance floor. “Well, then, he won’t miss you for a couple of songs, will he?”

 

Sherlock considers going along with it for a moment – he may not enjoy dancing, but Ian truly is very attractive and it would increase their chance of having intercourse at the end of the evening by 07% – but then he remembers the way John smiled nervously at him in the cab on the way over here, how his burgundy shirt drapes perfectly over the muscles of his back. He reluctantly tugs Ian back toward him with an apologetic smile.

 

“I would love to, but he’s having a rough time of it right now, bad breakup. I promised not to leave him on his own for too long.” Ian looks a little put out and starts to pull away, so Sherlock clarifies quickly, “You’re more than welcome to come join us, of course.”

 

Ian brightens at that. “Lead the way, then.”

 

Sherlock retrieves the other beer from the counter and nods his head in the general direction of where John is sitting, although he’s now obscured behind a throng of particularly enthusiastic dancers. Ian wraps an arm around his waist from behind, following him far more closely than is strictly necessary. He is just beginning to devise ways of enacting the first stage of his plan, transferring Ian’s interest over to John, when the crowd parts and his brain comes to a screeching halt. He doesn’t realize that his feet have done the same until Ian chuckles incredulously from behind him.

 

“That your friend? Doesn’t look like he was on his own for too long at all.”

 

Sure enough, John is now sitting pressed side-to-side with one of the handsomest men Sherlock has ever seen. His hair is honey-blonde, as curly as Sherlock’s but slicked back more artfully from his face, revealing a high forehead and wide, bright blue eyes that crinkle in the corners as he smiles warmly at something John has said. He notes that his eyes match the blue of his shirt, a long-sleeved v-neck that is practically see-through, revealing a lean, toned torso underneath. It’s hard to gauge while he’s sitting down, but Sherlock surmises that the stranger’s as tall as Ian if not an inch or two taller, his long legs and the vague outline of an impressive cock encased in leather trousers whose tightness puts even his own to shame. One arm is slung carelessly along the back of the couch, long fingers absentmindedly brushing John’s neck as he whispers something into his ear that has John throwing back his head in laughter.  All of his friend’s previous discomfort appears to be gone; Sherlock is momentarily puzzled, until he sees the three empty glasses lining the small table in front of the couch. He must have been at the bar longer than he thought. An inexplicable weight settles in the pit of his stomach.

 

It takes far longer than Sherlock is proud of for him to remember that he’s in character, and that ‘Mark’ is ‘David’s’ childhood friend, not a jealous lover. He quickly schools his features into pleasant surprise and chuckles along with Ian, moving to sit on the couch with the two men.

 

“I told you it wouldn’t take long to get back in the swing of things.” Sherlock’s tone is a perfect imitation of detached amusement. Inside, he’s seething, roiling pit of jealousy.

 

He startles John, who has clearly been so engrossed in the man next to him that he didn’t even notice Ian and Sherlock’s arrival. He blushes at Sherlock’s words, reaching clumsily for the beer that Sherlock hands to him. The stranger, however, turns lazily, nodding in greeting, still completely at ease and unfazed by the interruption. One large, sure hand plucks the bottle from Sherlock’s grasp and passes it on to John, whose blush deepens as he mutters his thanks. Sherlock finds himself beginning to hate the newcomer.

 

“Sh-Mark,” another blush - Sherlock revises his previous calculations of John’s alcohol intake; some of those drinks must have been doubles. John shouts to make himself heard across the space of the couch, the bass still thrumming loudly in the club. “This is Eric.”

 

Eric’s grin widens and he turns to face them more fully, sliding his arm from its place across John’s shoulder’s to give Sherlock a firm handshake. “Ah, Mark! David’s been telling me all about you. A pleasure.” He seems to genuinely mean it, and Sherlock hates him even more. “And who is your friend?”

 

Ian leans forward hastily to introduce himself before Sherlock can say a word; he’s clearly a bit taken with Eric as well, but his arm is still planted firmly around Sherlock’s waist and he doesn’t appear to be going anywhere.  Sherlock takes advantage of Eric and Ian’s distraction and tries to meet John’s eyes, instead finding his gaze fixed stubbornly on the beer bottle, thumbnail scratching furiously at the label. He’s embarrassed: his flirtation with Eric isn’t just an act for the case, then. It looks like John got a head start on Step 1 without Sherlock’s help. He isn’t really sure why that thought upsets him.

 

 _Sentiment is a chemical defect found in the losing side_.

 

Sherlock shakes off the memory and tries to rid himself of this odd sense of disappointment. He tells himself that it’s just frustration at his own stupidity and ego: _of course_ somebody would take an interest in John without Sherlock’s help – John is an attractive man, that’s the whole reason that he’s trying to have sex with him in the first place. Eric is just a catalyst, a stepping-stone between John’s stubborn heterosexuality and sex with Sherlock. Why should it matter if Sherlock picked him out or not?

 

_Because it does._

 

It takes all of his willpower to keep from pouting. For once in his life, logic seems to be failing him. He’s not usually one for drinking, but he takes a long, deep swig from his bottle before turning his attention back to his companions.

 

Eric angles himself so that he can talk easily with all three of them, his arm unconsciously snaking its way back around John’s shoulders as he answers Ian’s friendly inquiries about his history. Sherlock refuses to acknowledge the way that John settles into the embrace, the tension draining out of him as he focuses all of his attention on Eric’s words. Sherlock swallows around his bitterness and forces himself back into character, leaning heavily against Ian and feigning interest in the conversation, internally deducing everything he can about the man that has captured John’s interest…

 

…which turns out not to be much. Eric is the son of the club’s owner, an only child, and is in his mid-30s like Sherlock. He’s been living in America for the past several years to be closer to his mother (his father came out of the closet much later in life), and has come into town to help his aging father sell the business. Most of this is gleaned directly from Eric’s stories; everything else about Eric is masked behind a carefree confidence and a seemingly warm (but actually, Sherlock notes, quite carefully contrived) openness, to his mounting frustration.

 

“So how long are you in London for, then?” John tries to make the question casual, but Sherlock suspects that even Ian and Eric can hear the barely-disguised hope in John’s tone.

 

“Only for a few weeks, sadly. I’d forgotten how much I love this city.” John, to his credit, quickly hides his crestfallen expression, and the weight in Sherlock’s chest lightens somewhat.

 

_It’s only for a few weeks._

The relief is short-lived: Eric leans back into John’s space to whisper once again in his ear, still loud enough for Sherlock to hear. He’s not sure if that’s intentional or not.

 

“But maybe I could be persuaded to extend my visit…” And for Christ’s sake, John actually _giggles_ , a sound he has rarely heard from him, and even then only as a direct result of _Sherlock’s_ words and actions.

 

It’s not quite as endearing as he remembers it being.

 

He sincerely hopes that at least part of John’s interest is an act related to the case, especially upon discovering that Eric is directly involved in running the business, but he’s never known John to be quite so convincing a performer before.

 

John and Eric continue talking quietly after that, so Sherlock turns to face Ian with what he hopes is a seductive smile. Ian bites his lip and smiles back. If John can get a head start on Step 1, then maybe he should go ahead and move on to Step 2. The plan is still working, just a bit ahead of schedule. Sherlock can work with that. Plus, making John jealous would definitely help to alleviate some of his current frustration.

 

He fully intends on taking things slow, easing Ian, who has seemed up to this point a bit shy, into the idea of moving things along, when he feels fingers sliding into his hair and pulling him forward. He barely has time to notice Ian’s brilliant green eyes fluttering closed before their lips meet and his eyes, too, slip shut.

 

For a split second he forgets all about Eric and John and his own irritating sentimentality. Ian is a fantastic kisser: his tongue presses against the seam of Sherlock’s lips and Sherlock opens his mouth gladly, deepening the kiss. One of his hands is fisted in Ian’s shirt, the other grasping his hip, fingers just barely inching their way under his shirt and caressing the sensitive skin of his lower back. Ian moans and strokes the column of Sherlock’s throat, sucking gently on his lower lip.

 

It’s Sherlock’s turn to moan – oh, he’d forgotten how much he enjoys this. He must have deleted it over the years, and he promises himself that once this is all over, he’ll never make that mistake again. Ian pulls back slightly, turning his attention to Sherlock’s neck, scraping his teeth along the pulse point there, and Sherlock tilts his head to the side with a deep, satisfied sigh. His eyes slip open a fraction, and it’s just enough for him to see John staring at him, pupils wide and eyes dark, no longer listening to Eric at all. Sherlock’s eyes shoot open in surprise and John’s attention shifts abruptly to the floor.

 

Sherlock tries to focus again on Ian, but as Ian’s hand slips under his shirt, sliding slowly upwards along his abdomen in broad, teasing strokes, all Sherlock can do is stare helplessly at John and Eric, John adamantly refusing to look Sherlock’s way while Eric occasionally shoots him sidelong glances with an amused smirk. He doesn’t expect the attention to bother him – he’s never been particularly shy and sees no reason to be ashamed of sexual displays, as long as the setting is appropriate – in fact, getting John’s attention was the entire point of this exercise, but in this instance it’s really putting him off.

 

He doesn’t want to analyze it too closely.

 

Instead, he uses the hand in Ian’s hair to pull him up for a quick kiss before sliding his lips over to his ear.

 

“Maybe we should take this outside?” He jerks his head toward John and Eric, the latter of whom is now smiling at them indulgently.

 

Ian blushes but quickly laughs off his embarrassment, readily agreeing to Sherlock’s proposition. They both stand and the movement forces John to tear his attention from the floor. He looks at Sherlock in confusion. He clearly doesn’t understand how this is all related to the case; the return of his earlier discomfort briefly pleases Sherlock, and he feels a pang of guilt for that.

 

“We’re just going to step outside for a minute.” He turns his attention to Eric, who raises an eyebrow expectantly. “Make sure he doesn’t get into any trouble.”

 

His tone is light, but Sherlock thinks that Eric detects the threat behind the words – John better be there when he gets back. Eric laughs brightly.

 

“Oh, don’t worry. I won’t let him wander too far.” His arm tightens around John’s shoulders. John rolls his eyes and laughs along with him.

 

Sherlock really, _really_ hates this man.

 

He smiles tightly at them before Ian grabs his hand and starts winding their way toward the back of the club, where a black, metal door practically blends in with the surrounding wall. Ian is obviously not nearly as shy as Sherlock had supposed; he’s done this before, many times. He drags a cinder block out from under one of the chairs near the exit and uses it to prop the door open so that they can get back in. It would normally bother Sherlock that he had misread somebody so badly, but he’s tired, and he’s annoyed, and right now all he wants is to get off and go home. He pushes his feelings aside and follows Ian into a dark back alley.

 

Ian crowds him against the brick wall and they resume their previous activities, Sherlock finally allowing himself to fully enjoy the sensations: Ian’s lips and teeth again his throat, sucking along his collarbone, finally closing around a nipple. His head thuds against the wall as Ian continues his descent, and Sherlock doesn’t realize how painfully hard he is until Ian pops the buttons on his trousers and drags the zip down with his teeth, eyes twinkling up at him mischievously. Sherlock lets out a throaty groan and slides his fingers into Ian’s hair just as his lips close around the head of his cock.

 

Kissing isn’t Ian’s only area of expertise, apparently.

 

Sherlock loses himself in the hot, wet heat of Ian’s mouth, his hips rocking slightly on every stroke of that talented tongue. Ian relaxes his throat and Sherlock slides nearly all the way in, gasping as he grips the soft, brown hair even tighter, his other hand shooting out to scrabble at the brick wall. He gets the message; he starts to slowly fuck into his mouth, careful not to gag the man, and he distantly hears the sound of a zipper as Ian starts to jerk himself in time with Sherlock’s thrusts.

 

A few minutes later, Ian moans loudly around Sherlock’s cock, the muscles in his shoulder moving erratically as his hand speeds up. He comes with one, long final moan that sends Sherlock over the edge as well, back arching off the wall as he empties himself down his throat. Ian pulls off with a pop and tucks Sherlock back into his pants, resting his head against his thigh when he’s done. Sherlock continues to run his fingers through Ian’s hair, head buzzing while he comes down from the high of his orgasm.

 

As his head clears, he imagines for a second that it’s John leaning heavily against his thigh, John’s soft hair between his fingers. His throat tightens and that heavy, leaden weight returns.

 

_Would John do this for Eric?_

 

For the first time, Sherlock loses some of his confidence in the plan. He has a brief moment of panic.

 

Ian notices.

 

“You alright?” He clambers up awkwardly from his position on the ground, peering into Sherlock’s eyes and resting a comforting hand on his shoulder. Sherlock is embarrassed – and furious with himself for it – but he won’t let it show.

 

“Yeah,” he forces himself to laugh. “I’m just pissed, is all. I think it might be time to call it a night.” He walks toward the door, stumbling a bit to make it convincing. He has to get out of here – has to get _John_ out of here – so that he can re-strategize before they come back tomorrow night. Tall, handsome, confident, mysterious strangers are not a contingency he has planned for, and he’s starting to feel overwhelmed, an unfamiliar and unpleasant sensation.

 

Ian, however, doesn’t look convinced. “You’ve had one beer, and it’s only…” he pulls his phone out of his pocket. “11:30, mate. Are you sure everything’s alright?”

 

Sherlock lies easily. “We got a good head start before we came out, guess it finally caught up with me.” He turns and finds Ian frowning in both concern and disappointment. He’s not sure he’s ready to let Ian go quite yet, as he could still come in handy in the future, so he does some quick damage control. “Sorry to run off like this, but I’m sure we’ll be back again tomorrow night, if you want to meet up?”

 

Ian nods, still frowning. “Yeah, ‘course.” He’s suspicious, but Sherlock seems to have momentarily appeased his concerns. “Here, let me help you back to your friend.”

 

He bites back his usual scathing retort about not needing any help and lets Ian steer him back to the couch with a warm hand on his back. He begrudgingly admits to himself that it is pretty soothing, even if he doesn’t need it. He tries not to breathe an audible sigh of relief when John and Eric come back into view. They’re still sitting as closely as ever, but they’re just talking. He’s even more furious with himself for his panic attack in the alley, but he tries to focus on the positive for the time being.

 

“Sorry to interrupt,” John meets his eyes for the first time since Sherlock caught him staring earlier, and his look promptly switches from irritation to concern. Sherlock must look as sick as he’s pretending to feel. Well, mostly pretending. He can practically see the gears shift in John’s head as he understands.

 

“Ah, somebody’s had a bit too much today, eh?” John stands and moves to take over for Ian in supporting Sherlock’s weight. “I better get this one home, looks like.” He feels a rush of warmth for his friend; John still knows how to read his signals, and he’ll always put Sherlock and the case ahead of anything – or anyone. The world is shifting back to rights; he just needs to make a few recalculations and the plan can get right back on track.

 

Sherlock nods miserably, poking John clumsily in the chest. “You – are a good friend.” He reaches around John to clap Ian on the shoulder. “And you, well, you’re good too.”

 

Ian and Eric laugh loudly at that; it’s hard to make out John’s expression in profile, but Sherlock thinks he sees a brief frown pass over his features before he lets out a half-hearted chuckle as well. Ian moves behind Sherlock and slips his phone from his back pocket.

 

“Text me when you head out tomorrow, yeah?” He slides the phone back in place, groping his ass in the process.

 

“Count on it.” Sherlock cranes his head back to kiss him one last time, and John goes stiff next to him, not relaxing until they both pull back, Ian heading back to the bar with one last wave to the group.

 

Sherlock’s just starting to feel in charge of the situation again when Eric unfolds gracefully from the couch, pulling a money clip from his back pocket and withdrawing a business card that he precedes to slide into John’s shirt pocket, letting his hand linger on John’s chest as he leans in to rumble, “And _you_ make sure to give me a call as well.”

 

John smiles nervously and swallows, nodding his assent. Eric throws one last friendly smile Sherlock’s way, this one highly reminiscent of a shark, before sauntering off toward the dance floor.

 

 _Confident, attractive bastard_.

 

As John guides Sherlock toward the front door, Sherlock begins to rework the next phase of the plan in his head. John clearly didn’t have as much trouble acknowledging his attraction to a man as Sherlock had previously expected, although he’d have to wait and talk to him to find out just how willing John was to admit that it wasn’t all for the case. John was always surprising, though, and Sherlock had already factored in the possibility that certain steps might move more quickly or more slowly than he had estimated. No, the real threat to the plan is _Eric_ – he’s a wild card, and John’s attraction to him appears to go beyond the merely physical and into the realm of all-out infatuation. Sherlock will have to be careful how he proceeds from this point, lest he unintentionally set John up with another man.

 

The thought bothers him more than he cares to admit. He shoves it aside along with all of the other uncomfortable revelations he’s had tonight.

 

They make their way outside, the night air cool after the muggy heat of the nightclub. John moves away from Sherlock now that their ruse is no longer needed, and he misses the comfortable weight of John’s body against his side. He walks as closely to him as he dares, so that their shoulders bump occasionally as they walk along the pavement. John doesn’t seem to mind, much to Sherlock’s pleasure.

 

John clears his throat. “So…”

 

Sherlock, allowed to be himself once more, arches his brow in his usual condescending expectation, even though he knows exactly what John is asking. “What?”

 

He stifles a smirk at John’s expected huff of indignation. “You know what. Did you learn anything from Ian? Can he help us with the case?” John refuses to look at Sherlock when he says Ian’s name, and that’s new. Sherlock does smirk at that.

 

“Oh, Ian has nothing to do with the prostitution ring.” He waves a hand dismissively. “That was just a bit of fun.” Sherlock takes several more steps before he realizes that John is no longer walking beside him. He turns to find him standing with his fists clenched at his side, eyes wide and mouth gaping. “Oh, what’s that look for?”

 

John throws his hands up in the air and laughs humorlessly, exasperated. “For fuck’s sake, Sherlock – I thought we were supposed to be working back there! And instead you’re getting off with some…some _guy_ who…and hang on, I thought you were straight!” John’s exasperation mingles with confusion now. “What about Irene?”

 

Sherlock looks at John steadily, tone patiently condescending, “Irene was gorgeous, and so is Ian.” John frowns, and Sherlock sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose in frustration. “Look, we _were_ working, John. Or were you just chatting up Eric for personal reasons?” John flushes, sputtering indignantly. Sherlock files it away for later. “Ian is a regular who has been going to The Edge of Heaven for years. I don’t know if you noticed, but there were no prostitutes working the floor, which means everything must go on behind the scenes. Getting in with a regular might be our only shot at cracking the case.” He pauses a moment, considering. “But that doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy myself at the same time.”

 

With that, he turns and resumes walking towards Baker Street. It only takes John a couple of seconds to catch up, his strides quick enough to match Sherlock’s long gait. He chances a look over at him, and finds him deep in thought.

 

“So you’re bisexual, then.” Sherlock is far more pleased than he should be that John’s apparently thinking about him and not the case.

 

_Not Eric._

 

“If you have to be so dull as to label it…that’s probably the closest.” John rolls his eyes at the insult, but nods anyway.

 

“Why did you never – ”

 

“It was never relevant before.” John continues frowning, so Sherlock clarifies. He’s never been comfortable talking about personal feelings, but if he wants to hold John’s interest, sacrifices have to be made. “I’ve been celibate for many years. But recently I’ve considered exploring the possibility of sex once again. Ian was just convenient timing.”

 

John looks away, expression unreadable. “I see.”

 

They walk along in companionable silence after that, John still lost in thought. Sherlock hesitates to break his concentration, but he has some questions of his own.

 

“Back to the case…”

 

John seems to shake himself back to attention. “Yes, the case…”

 

“You know that Eric is our best avenue for leaning anything about the club’s illegal activities.” Sherlock looks at him pointedly, but John won’t meet his gaze.

 

“I know,” he replies softly. “I don’t think he has anything to do with it, though. He seems…nice.”

 

Sherlock scowls; so John _is_ developing a bit of a crush. He’ll have to tread carefully, but he thinks he can use it to his advantage.

 

“We can’t be sure yet, though.” John frowns, but he nods his agreement. “We’ll have to maintain contact with him until we figure everything out.”

 

John swallows heavily. “Are you going to…” He searches for the right words. “‘Have some fun’ with him too?”

 

Sherlock smiles wryly, not altogether happy about this next part, “I don’t think he’s interested in having fun with _me_ , John.”

 

John clenches his jaw and continues looking straight ahead. They’re almost home now.

 

“Are you comfortable with that?”

 

Sherlock’s concern and curiosity is genuine; John glances at him out of the corner of his eye and nods briskly.

 

“Whatever you need, Sherlock.”

 

Sherlock smiles at the sentiment. Maybe the plan was working just fine after all.


End file.
